Hot Blood (Bloodwords Book 1)

by Vic Marelle

  With more tight ninety-degree turns to re-cross the railway and pass the bus station, the now tightly bunched cavalcade neared the end of the lap as Debbie’s mobile started to ring. After a few seconds she said, ‘in Ormskirk sir,’ then listened again. Other than that the call was obviously from one of her superiors, Simon could glean nothing. Debbie was listening intently but saying little.

  ‘No sir,’ she said, then after a few seconds, ‘I’m with Simon Charlton sir.’ Falling silent again while obviously being given some sort of instruction, she finally added, ‘but we are in his car sir.’ Then, casting a quick glance across at Simon she said, ‘if you put it that way sir. OK. We are on it now. I’ll call you back,’ and closed the call.

  The cavalcade had now completed the first of its three laps of the ring road course and where this would normally be punctuated by regular stoppages for traffic lights and pedestrian crossings, the MotorFest was a new experience for all the drivers. Though little more than a mile in total, to a man, every driver was enjoying the experience of a continuous run ignoring normal traffic lanes and instead taking racing lines. Most had followed Simon’s lead, dropping back in the first section so that they could accelerate out of the church curves and down Stoker’s Straight, but the ever attentive Clerk of the Course had purposely bunched the cars up on the back section so that they would start their second lap in very close formation.

  ‘One of the plates you saw in the caravan site workshop has just been picked up on the A59,’ Debbie told Simon as he cursed the CoC for locking the Olympic behind a Heinkel bubble car and an Austin Healey Sprite dawdling along at a mere 20mph. ‘There hasn’t been a car theft reported yet but it looks like another stolen car is being moved,’ she added.

  ‘The A59 goes all the way from Liverpool up into Yorkshire, so where exactly did they pick it up?’ ‘Are they following it?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t picked up by a patrol. It’s not been made public but ANPR checks are running from several fixed masts around the region. They picked this plate up at Fiveways just half a mile from here.’ Her manner changed. Suddenly she was all matter of fact and in control. Looking at him she gave him his instructions. He was to leave the cavalcade and get across to the A59. The car had been travelling towards Preston so he was to catch it and follow it until it arrived at its destination.

  ‘We can’t Debbie,’ he responded. ‘The complete ring road is closed off and with the exhibits in the town centre there’s no way through there either. We’ve two more laps before they will let anything in or out – and even then only for a minute or so until the next cavalcade. No Debbie, tell your blokes they will have to send a police car. You’re supposed to be on a day off anyway aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t bloody argue dammit!’ she exploded. ‘A marked car would scare them off. We are the closest. Now don’t mess about, get onto the A59 and catch the bugger up.’ Looking at him again determinedly she screamed, ‘do it Simon!’ adding, ‘you got me into this shit, now put your bloody foot down and get us out of it or Inspector Radcliffe will have both our guts for garters.’

  Never had he seen her so agitated. Or so determined. As the cavalcade entered the start straight to begin its second circuit he worked out the possible options. Just fifty metres ahead was a turn off past the supermarket and fire station. But that road joined the A59 more than a mile away in the wrong direction. And in any case, the crowd were currently blocking the junction more than ten deep so there was no way to get through. It was not an option.

  ‘Come on Simon,’ she shouted desperately. ‘Move it.’

  ‘We can’t do anything from here,’ he countered.

  If looks could kill, Simon would be dead.

  ‘The only chance we have is off Stokers,’ he continued. ‘The crowd is ten or twelve deep here near the supermarket junction and we are on the wrong side of town. The pub and church corners are packed with onlookers and the marshals have the church exit well blocked so that’s not an option either. Stoker’s Straight is on the right side of town and on our first lap the crowds were much thinner so that’s our only chance of getting off the ring road. If we take a left at the junction half way down, the road goes past a small industrial estate and joins the A59 about half a mile from Fiveways on the Preston side. That’s the best we can do.’

  ‘For God’s sake Simon,’ she shouted. Stop making theories and get a move on. Just do it. We can’t dawdle around in this procession until we get to the other side of town because boyo will be long gone and we’ll never catch him. Christ Simon, my great aunt could go faster than this lot on her mobility scooter!’

  Dropping a gear, switching on his headlights and his all-round hazard flashers in one fluid movement he drew right up behind the bubble car but the Heinkel driver held his course. Pulling over to the left, Simon pressed the accelerator and moved to overtake but the bubble car driver blocked the manoeuvre, moving in the same direction and waving back at Simon.

  ‘Get out of the way you bloody moron,’ yelled Simon as he flung the wheel in the opposite direction to pass on the right. As he pulled abreast of the bubble car its driver waved again, grinned and shouted something that they couldn’t hear, then Simon was forced to brake hard as a bollard marking the entrance drive into a small retail park blocked his way.

  Throwing the Olympic back into line behind the Heinkel, Simon flashed his main beam and pounded on the horn, waving one fist in the air in frustration.

  ‘He thinks we are fooling about,’ observed Debbie as Simon finally squeezed the coupé past the bubble car. Now just the Healey and a Subaru blocked their way, preventing them from getting up speed and reaching the junction quickly.

  ‘Everybody does,’ responded Simon as he flung the car from side to side trying to pass. ‘The crowd are loving it. They think its all an act. Bloody hell, get out of the way!’

  Now the Healey driver was entering into the spirit of what he thought was Simon’s exuberance and showmanship, swerving first to one side then the other, blocking Simon’s every attempt to pass. Weaving from side to side they approached the pub corner as the crowd went wild, spilling onto the road shouting and cheering the duo as they battled for position.

  ‘Just look at the bloody nutter. Get out of the way,’ shouted Simon as he put the Olympic into a torrid slide to get around the corner without hitting a group of young girls who were jumping up and down, cheering him on.

  ‘I’m sure that that’s that Les Starr bloke in front,’ shouted Debbie. ‘He writes for the North Meols Drum I think. Don Radcliffe hates his guts. He had some inside info at the last briefing and Don wasn’t best pleased at all. Watch out Simon, there’s a little boy on the road.’

  Swerving to miss the child, Simon almost hit the Healey, pounding the horn once again and gunning the coupé as the car in front swung wide into the church corner, Simon managing to pass on the inside.

  ‘He’s well known,’ responded Charlton, lining up the Subaru as his next target as they approached a narrowing section around the church. ‘It’s a wonder the bloody pufter isn’t wearing a dress.’

  Giggling, Debbie looked at Simon with a grin on her face. ‘Really Simon,’ she retorted, ‘you can’t say that. It’s not politically correct to call someone a pufter or poke fun at his or her sexuality. Now for God’s sake, get past that next car. He thinks it’s funny too. Can’t you just go faster?’

  Sure enough the Subaru wasn’t getting out of the way either. Just like the journalist, the driver was weaving the Japanese car from side to side, preventing Simon from overtaking.

  ‘No he doesn’t,’ shouted Simon as he dropped the car back again, another passing attempt thwarted. ‘From the look on his face he is hell bent on not letting us through. I think it’s a matter of pride. He’s a club member and that’s a hot rally car he’s driving. He thinks we have a feeble little sixties engine so he’ll do anything to stop us getting past.’

  Gripping the wheel tighter he planned his move. ’Hold on Debbie,’ he said. ‘Our turn
ing is coming up on the left so I am going to drift over to the right and with a bit of luck the Scoobie will drift with us to block us. Then as soon as he’s over by the right hand gutter we are going to shoot off to the left and into the side street. Cross your fingers that the crowd’s thin and gets out of the way. If we get this wrong we’ll either mow somebody down or end up in the brick wall of that building on the corner. Now, hold on.’

  Speeding up to almost touch the Subaru as they went down the dip after exiting the church corner, Simon moved over to the extreme right of the road. Watching his every move in his rear-view mirror, the Subaru driver followed suit, drifting to the right in close formation. As the two cars offside wheels brushed the right kerb, Simon flung the Olympic to the left, putting it into a slide, its tyres screaming as they scrabbled for grip and the coupe entered the side road with its tail hanging out. The handful of spectators at that point scrambled to safety as the car rocketed into their midst, it’s engine howling as Simon balanced the power in a technique known as steering with the engine. The Subaru continued along Stoker’s Straight, Simon now more relaxed in the Olympic as they rocketed past the industrial estate and towards the A59. How far had their quarry gone since detection? Would they catch him? And of the different brands covered by the cloned plates, what was he driving anyway? Who or what were they following?

  ‘Oh crikey,’ said Debbie. Did you see who was driving that car? The one that didn’t want you to pass.’

  ‘None of them wanted us to pass. But the Scoobie driver was even more determined than the pufter in the Healey or the tosser in the bubble car. I told you when we couldn’t get past. He’s a club member. I think he’s called Frank. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. I am sure that it was Inspector Davies, my boss. If he recognised me the shit will hit the fan. That was scary. I really thought we were going to hit the spectators on that corner or end up in the wall. Oh, and that’s Ormskirk Police Station on the corner you nearly drove us into,’ she added.

  ‘You are joking?’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise that he was your boss. I just know him as Frank. Actually I’ve only met him a couple of times because he doesn’t often turn up to club meetings, but if that was the local nick, why didn’t they send an unmarked car from there instead of having us putting our lives at risk?’

  ‘And those of the crowd we nearly hit,’ she added. ‘Actually, there’s nobody stationed there any more. It is just a walk-in enquiry desk now inside a big empty building. Financial cuts and all that.’

  By now they had joined the A59 and she was peering ahead in search of their target. ‘The plate was cloned from a Bentley so that’s what we should be looking for.’ Then, reading out the registration from her notes she added that they should also check other car registrations as they passed them in case their cloning theory was not correct.

  ‘There it is,’ shouted Simon triumphantly, pointing ahead.

  ‘Where? I can’t see it.’

  ‘Five, six, seven cars ahead,’ he replied, counting the cars in front of them. ‘Look, there, its the silver one in front of the BMW.’

  ‘That’s not a Bentley,’ she corrected him. ‘Its a big one though so perhaps it’s an Aston Martin like in the James Bond films.’

  ‘No Debbie. That’s a Bentley Continental GT. Since Volkswagen bought Bentley they have had some pretty modern styles.’ Carefully overtaking a couple of cars to get them closer to the GT, Simon tried to catch the registration but couldn’t concentrate sufficiently while driving..

  ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘The reg is right. Don’t get any closer. Just follow it’.

  Taking out her mobile she punched in some numbers and waited for it to connect. ‘We’ve got it,’ she said after the call was answered. ‘We are still on the 59, just entering Burscough. And yes, it’s a Bentley.’ After a short pause she continued, ‘Yes, it looks like it. At least, he is heading in that direction. We’ve dropped back a bit so that he doesn’t smell a rat but I’m pretty sure that’s where he’s going and that he hasn’t twigged that we are following.’ Another pause, then, ‘Right. Got it.’

  ……….

  Sitting in the interview room he felt uncomfortable. The only time he had ever been in a police station had been to ask for directions. Being in the stark little room where just a table and four chairs were the only furnishings was more than a little intimidating.

  And they were letting him stew.

  For the umpteenth time he looked at his watch. Two minutes. That’s all it had moved on since the last time he had checked. It had seemed more like half an hour. Why was he here? That was what he wanted to know. Two officers, a sergeant and a constable, had gone to his office and asked him to come here. Just routine they had said. He might be able to help them in their enquiries they had said. They hadn’t frog marched him out or bundled him into a police car so his employees wouldn’t have realised anything was out of the ordinary. But it was very out of the ordinary. The officers had led when he had driven to the police station and he knew that the car directly behind was a patrol car as well – though unmarked. Surely that wasn’t all normal?

  And being kept in this room. Was that to put him on edge or had the man that wanted to talk to him genuinely been delayed? Mentally he reviewed the previous six months. Admittedly he had done a few dodgy deals. Perhaps they had cottoned on to the few dodgy exports or the irregularities with some of his Eastern European employees, but those were the ways he kept the business afloat. You didn’t make a fortune out of the single mums that once a year brought their Ford hatchbacks for a service and MOT, so something had to subsidise it.

  The door opened and two men walked in. It’s like on the telly he thought. They keep you holed up in a stark little room with only a table and four uncomfortable metal-framed chairs then in walk the interrogation team like Morse and Lewis to crack the case.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the older one. ‘Thank you for coming in. We have a couple of problems and we think that you might be able to help us.’

  Then came the formalities. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Radcliffe and the other officer as Detective Sergeant Fraser. Fraser had been the one that had brought him from the office. For accuracy they needed to record their conversation. Was that OK? Did he mind? But he wasn’t to be concerned because that was just procedure. It was just that if they didn’t record it then they might not be able to use the information they were sure he could give them. Nothing to worry about they said with smiles on their faces.

  Like hell there was nothing to worry about. This crazy episode had suddenly got very serious. No, it wasn’t bloody OK. No, he didn’t want the conversation recorded. And no, there wasn’t anything he could tell them that would help with their enquiries. What enquiries anyway? Oh shit, it was the Polish employees. Or if not, the exports.

  ‘Do what you bloody want,’ he said.

  The sergeant reached across and switched on the recorder, then announced the names of himself and his senior officer. Looking across, the sergeant asked him to confirm his name and then looked at the inspector.

  ‘Firstly I would like to thank you for coming in,’ said Radcliffe.

  ‘I didn’t have much bloody choice did I?’ he replied. ‘What is this all about anyway? I have a business to run you know.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ replied the detective, ‘so the quicker we can get this done the quicker you can get back to it. Like I said, I appreciate your generosity in giving up your time to help us. And I apologise for not putting you in the picture earlier.’ Twirling a pencil between his fingers and looking somewhat pensive he continued, ‘but it is a little delicate.’

  Generosity be damned. And why delicate. Oh bloody hell; it was definitely the damned Polish guys.

  ‘Do you employ a man called Pawel Lewinelsky?’ asked Radcliffe.

  Blast. How could he fudge this one? ‘Yes Inspector, I do.’

  ‘How long has he worked for you?’

  ‘Off hand I�
�m not sure,’ though privately he could have given the exact date that Lewinelsky had arrived in the country and the exact date he had started work. ‘About six months I think,’ he added.

  ‘He is Polish isn’t he?’ asked Radcliffe.

  ‘Yes.’ He wasn’t sure where this was going, so keeping his answers short might be the least problematic.

  ‘You employ several Poles then?’ It was the first time that the sergeant had spoken since making the introductions for the recording.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ then looking first at the sergeant and then the inspector, added, ‘I don’t like to admit it but they are bloody good workers. Actually, they are a damned sight harder working than our own people.’

  ‘And cheaper,’ added the inspector.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And they don’t ask questions,’ offered the sergeant.

  ‘Questions? What sort of questions?’

  ‘We’ll come back to that,’ cut in the inspector, continuing, ‘has Mr Lewinelsky come to work this morning?’

  ‘No Inspector. He wasn’t in yesterday either.’

  ‘Did he call in sick? Have you had any contact with him?’

  ‘No. He didn’t turn up yesterday so when he didn’t turn in today my assistant called him but he didn’t answer his phone. What’s the problem?’

  Ignoring the question, Radcliffe continued digging. ‘Why didn’t you go round to check? Is he in the habit of taking days off?’

  ‘No Inspector. Actually he has been very reliable. Like I said, his sort work hard. But I am a busy man and I cannot spend time chasing around after employees who decide to take some time off,’ then, looking directly at Radcliffe, ‘or sitting answering silly questions.’

  ‘Believe me, our questions are not silly. We have a serious matter to sort out and you can help us,’ said the sergeant.